


Schittier Than Fiction

by DelilahMcMuffin



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Boys In Love, Falling In Love, First Kiss, M/M, Magical Realism, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Patrick is a thumb-faced king of the Boyscouts, Semi-sentient wristwatches, Slow Burn, Stranger Than Fiction, boys falling in love, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelilahMcMuffin/pseuds/DelilahMcMuffin
Summary: Patrick wakes one Tuesday morning to discover that his life is being narrated.That would be disquieting enough, but the voice in Patrick’s head seems to know more about him than even he does, especially when it comes to David Rose, the owner of the general but very specific store that Patrick is currently auditing for the Canada Revenue Agency.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 55
Kudos: 190
Collections: Reel Schitt's Creek Prompt Fest





	Schittier Than Fiction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barelypink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barelypink/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [barelypink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barelypink/pseuds/barelypink) in the [Reel_Schitts_Creek](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Reel_Schitts_Creek) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Patrick Brewer is an uptight IRS agent whose mundane existence is transformed when he hears a mysterious voice (Stevie? Moira? Gwen? unknown? you pick) narrating his life. It becomes even more complicated when the voice understands Patrick's growing feelings for David Rose, the disgruntled shop owner whose taxes he's currently auditing, even before he does. 
> 
> (Feel free to include or ignore the component about him possibly being killed off by the author narrator and seeking help from others. I love that component but this is a complicated story so streamline where you must. Major bonus points if you can think of another charming gift in the flours/flowers vein.)
> 
> Author’s Note: In my story, Patrick works for the CRA (aka: Canada Revenue Agency or Revenue Canada) which is the Canadian counterpart to the IRS in the United States.

* * *

**Prologue**

  
_This is a story about a man named Patrick Brewer. And his wristwatch._

_Patrick Brewer was a man of infinite spreadsheets, endless numbers, and remarkably few words. And his wristwatch said even less._

_Every morning, for the past twelve years, Patrick Brewer would brush each of his thirty two teeth 72 times. Every weekday for the past twelve years, Patrick would put on a blue shirt and tie his tie in a Single Windsor knot. His wristwatch thought he could use some diversity in his choice of shirt colours, but said nothing._

_Nearly six months previous, Patrick had moved. He had moved because he had broken up with his fiancée. He had broken up with his fiancée because, for some reason, despite the comfort and familiarity of all the quantifiable numbers in his life, he had felt off. He knew it wasn’t his blue shirts or his Single Windsor knots, or even his 72 strokes per tooth. So it had to be Rachel. She was the remainder in his equation. Remove Rachel and his life would feel right._

_Right?_

_Every weekday for the past 6 months, Patrick would run at an average speed of 57 steps per block for 8 blocks, to catch the Yonge Street bus. His wristwatch delighted in the feeling of the crisp morning air breezing against its face. It was the wristwatch’s favourite time of day._

_And every weekday for the past 12 years, Patrick would review 1.47 files as a senior auditor at the Canada Revenue Agency. He took a 43 minute lunch break and a 3.7 minute coffee break, timed perfectly each day by his wristwatch._

_Since moving into his new place, Patrick’s evenings all ended the same way. At the end of his day, he would return to his small apartment, eat his dinner, and then get into bed at precisely 9:35 pm according to his wristwatch. Alone._

_That was before Tuesday. On Tuesday, everything changed for Patrick Brewer. All because of his wristwatch._  
  
  


* * *

  
**Chapter 1**

_Patrick was brushing his teeth, just like any other Tuesday morning. He was counting his strokes—_

Patrick paused, toothbrush still shoved deep in his mouth, toothpaste lather gathering at the corners of his lips. He could have sworn he heard someone. He shook his head.

_Patrick was brushing his teeth, just like any other Tuesday morning. He was counting his strokes—38 up and down, 38 side to—_

“Hello?” 

He stared at his toothbrush. It looked like it always had. Blue and white, with soft bristles and that soft little rubber toothpick thing on the end of the handle. It was the same toothbrush he’d been buying himself every three months for the last 12 years.

With a shrug, he resumed brushing his teeth. 35, 36, 37...

_Patrick was brushing his teeth, just like any other Tuesday morning. He was counting his strokes—38 up and down, 38 side to side. When—_

“Is someone there?”

Patrick Brewer looked over his shoulder. As he had been every morning since he’d moved out of Rachel’s apartment, Patrick was completely alone. Slowly, cautiously, he put his toothbrush back in his mouth.

_Patrick was brushing his teeth, just like any other Tuesday morning. He was counting his strokes—38 up and down, 38 side to side. When other’s minds would—_

“Seriously. Who is that?”

Nothing. No one. Alone. 

_When other’s minds would stray to what the day might have in store for them, Patrick just counted brush strokes._

“Okay,” Patrick mumbled through a mouthful of toothpaste. This was getting ridiculous. He spat into the sink, rinsing the foamy residue down the drain. “Who just said _‘Patrick just counted brush strokes?’_ How do you know I’m counting brush strokes?!”

Silence.

Setting his toothbrush back into the little blue cup on the counter, Patrick finished getting ready for work.

_He washed his face. Put on his third favourite blue shirt. Tied his Single Windsor knot despite the fact that it made his neck look fat—_

Patrick sighed. The voice—sardonic, brusque, a little bit judgy—was back. ”My neck does _not_ look fat.” His wristwatch disagreed, but kept its opinion to itself.

He regarded his reflection in the mirror. He looked sane. He looked normal. But this morning was beginning to feel decidedly _not_ normal. Patrick undid his tie and re-tied it in a Double Windsor. 

He had to admit that it was more in proportion with his neck and shoulders. And maybe was just the tiniest bit more flattering. But still. 

_The act of retying his tie put Patrick behind his carefully arranged schedule. He would miss his bus and be late for work._

“Shit!” Patrick exclaimed, glancing at his wristwatch. He was going to miss his bus! He grabbed his briefcase and an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and ran for the door. 

_He ran for his bus, his ugly brown shoes—_

Patrick came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He looked down at his sensible brown dress shoes. They weren’t ugly, were they? Very sensible. A little old fashioned. But not ugly.

His wristwatch disagreed, but remained silent.

The hydraulic hiss of the bus’s doors closing brought him back to the present. His shoes forgotten, he ran down the sidewalk like a man possessed, waving his arms and shouting at the driver to wait. But the driver had a schedule to keep to, and could not be kept waiting for Patrick and his allegedly ugly shoes. 

Patrick came to a stop at the bus shelter beside a woman for whom the bus had also not been prepared to wait. He sighed heavily. The woman smiled at him.

 _And while this was the first day of Patrick’s exciting new reality, Patrick just thought it was a Tuesday._

“I’m sorry?” Patrick asked the woman. “Did you say something?”

The woman stared back at him with a look of uncertainty, the smile slipping slowly from her face. “No,” she replied.

“Y-you didn’t just say _‘Patrick just thought it was a Tuesday?’”_

The woman’s smile faltered altogether and she took a step back. Then another. “Who’s Patrick?”

“I am. I’m Patrick.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, it is Tuesday.”

“Right,” Patrick said, nodding his head and giving the woman what he hoped was a completely sane smile, one that conveyed that he was of sound mind, and not at all crazy.

From the look on her face and the extra step she took away from him, he hadn’t been entirely successful.

* * *

  
**Chapter 2**

Patrick was having trouble concentrating. He lost focus on the case file open on his desk in front of him and then he messed up the formula in his spreadsheet, which threw off all of his calculations. His wristwatch beeped to try and get his attention, but even so, it had taken him an hour to notice his error, by which time it was easier to start again, rather than trying to undo everything he had done wrong so far. 

He was standing in front of a bank of filing cabinets, putting away the file he had been trying to work on all morning when his coworker Craig approached him. 

“Hey, Patrick? You okay buddy?” Craig asked. 

Patrick looked up at him. “Huh?”

“You’ve been standing there, staring off into space for like, five minutes.”

Patrick looked around at the bustling office. He glanced down at his wristwatch which confirmed that he had, in fact, been standing there for four minutes and 54 seconds. 

He crooked his finger so Craig would lean forward. “Um…I think I’m being followed,” he whispered. 

Craig frowned. He looked around at the bustling office where everyone was doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing: filing paperwork, working on files, talking on the phone. He looked back at Patrick. “Um... it doesn’t _look_ like you’re being followed,” he said.

Patrick shook his head. “Oh no. Not by a person,” Patrick replied in a hushed whisper. He gave Craig a significant look. “By a _voice.”_

Craig raised his eyebrows. “A voice?”

Patrick nodded. “A woman’s voice.” 

Craig smiled somewhat nervously. “Um...okay,” he began, looking around as if to see if anyone else was in on this conversation. As if maybe his cohorts were playing a practical joke on him. They weren’t. “Well, what is this voice saying?”

“She’s narrating.”

Craig’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Oh. Um, okay. But...you’re just standing there, man. I mean, no offence, but...what’s there to narrate?”

“Listen!” Patrick picked up a file from the top of the cabinet. 

_The file felt heavy in his hand. The thick Manila folder was soft but sturdy. The sound it made as Patrick slid it alongside its fellows in the cabinet was strangely satisfying, and yet—_

“There! Did you hear that?” Patrick asked, looking hopefully at his coworker.

Craig cocked his head, leaning forward as if listening intently. After a few seconds he shook his head. “Sorry, but what am I supposed to be hearing?”

“The voice!”

Craig opened his mouth, then shut it. He shook his head. “I didn’t hear any voice. Other than yours. Just now.”

“The funny thing is, the sound _is_ strangely satisfying.”

“What sound?” Craig asked, looking at Patrick with increasing concern.

“The sound! The sound of the file sliding in beside its fellows!”

Craig took a step back. “Dude, are you okay?”

Patrick’s shoulders slumped and he scrubbed his hands wearily over his face. “I’m fine,” he sighed.

“Okay,” Craig said in a tone that led Patrick to deduce that it was not _at all_ okay. “Um, well, I have a new file for you to work on. It’s for a general store in a place called—get this— _Schitt’s Creek_. Can you believe that?”

“After this morning, I can believe almost anything,” Patrick said, taking the file from Craig and flipping it open. _Rose Apothecary._ He couldn’t help but smile. It sounded old fashioned, and maybe just a little bit pretentious. 

“Maybe...maybe take the afternoon off,” Craig suggested, patting Patrick awkwardly on the shoulder. “Get started on that file tomorrow. After you get some rest.”

Patrick nodded his head absently. “Sure. Sure. Take the afternoon off.”

_In 12 years, Patrick had never taken a sick day. Never taken a single day of vacation. He was not going to take the afternoon off._

“I’m not?”

“You’re not what?” Craig asked, brows furrowed with concern as he watched Patrick flip through the file. 

“Oh. N-nothing. Never mind,” Patrick mumbled. “Thanks Craig. I’ll get right on this.” He smiled in a manner that he hoped was reassuring. 

Neither Craig nor Patrick’s wristwatch were convinced.

“After you get some rest this afternoon,” Craig reiterated.

“Yeah. Sure. Of course,” Patrick agreed.

Craig gave him one more appraising glance, then nodded his head and turned to leave Patrick to finish his filing.

* * *

  
**Chapter 3**

The drive to Schitt’s Creek took exactly 3.25 hours from Toronto, according to Patrick’s wristwatch.

Upon arriving in town, his first order of business was to secure a room at the town’s only motel. On any other day, Patrick would have reserved a room ahead of time. He did not like flying by the seat of his pants. He preferred to have things planned out, predictable. But when he’d called the motel before leaving Toronto, there had been no answer. The woman’s voice on the voicemail greeting sounded vaguely aggressive. He had left a brief message with his name and phone number, but no one had yet returned his call. He had also checked online, only to find that the motel’s website was “under construction”.

With no guarantee of a place to stay, which only added to the growing sense of unease that had been building inside him all day, Patrick had packed up his sensible four door sedan with the necessities and made the drive up in time to check into the motel, and then hopefully meet the proprietor of Rose Apothecary at his store before closing. If all went well, Patrick would be able to get the job done in less than a week. 

He sighed as he got out of his car and made his way to the door marked “Office”. The outside of the motel was dull, but tidy. The office was another matter altogether. It had the air of a hunting lodge from the seventies with various stuffed critters adorning it’s dark wood-panelled walls. It’s crowning glory was the enormous painting of a stag that hung behind the front desk.

The office was empty. Patrick pressed the bell sitting on the counter and it made a dull, thunking noise. Frowning, he rapped on the counter with his knuckles. 

A dark haired woman emerged from a door behind the desk. 

“Can I help you?” she asked, her expression indicating that she would prefer if his answer was ‘no’.

Patrick smiled warmly. “Yes. I called earlier about reserving a room for the week?” The woman stared back at him, nonplussed. “Um...my name is Patrick. Patrick Brewer.”

The woman raised an eyebrow at him. “Brewer, huh?” she said as she turned her attention to an absolutely ancient computer. “You’re up from Toronto, aren’t you?” she asked. 

“Yes. Yup,” Patrick replied. 

“Hmm.”

_The woman was obviously in no hurry to get Patrick checked in. Had he leaned forward slightly to peer at her screen, he would have seen that—instead of inputting his information —she was playing a game of Solitaire. And she was losing._

Patrick watched the woman pointedly ignore him. Slowly, he leaned forward. He caught a glimpse of the screen before the woman noticed and turned the monitor away from him. She had indeed been playing Solitaire. 

“No one comes here for pleasure,” she said flatly, her eyes once again fixed on her game. “So I have to assume you’re here on business.”

“Oh. Uh, yes. Business,” Patrick agreed.

The woman turned her intense gaze on him. “And what kind of business are you in?”

_Patrick hesitated. He had a very strong sense that this woman didn’t like him for some reason. Or maybe she didn’t like anyone, and this was just how she was with everyone. But he knew that divulging his occupation would only make things worse. No one liked an auditor._

“I am, uh...I’m just here to—“

_Unfailingly honest to a fault, Patrick wished he was a better liar. Or at least a little more creative. He wasn’t terribly good at thinking on his feet._

Patrick groaned internally. At this particular moment, the voice was being decidedly unhelpful. Now, perhaps if it could offer a suggestion instead of just pointing out his flaws—

“You’re here to…” the woman interjected, making a rolling motion with her hand to encourage him to go on. “You’re here to what?”

“I’m, uh…consulting. With a local business.”

“Mmm. _Consulting,”_ the woman huffed. She flicked her dark hair over her shoulder, revealing a name tag that indicated that her name was Stevie. “Any business in particular?”

“Oh. Well, I can’t actually speak to...I’m not at liberty to divulge what business is being, um, consulted.”

Patrick’s wristwatch beeped, hoping to alert him that he needed to hurry if he wanted to get to Rose Apothecary with enough time left during business hours to get anything done.

Patrick shifted impatiently from foot to foot as the dot matrix printer on the counter behind Stevie whined to life, printing off his reservation information so painfully slowly. Finally, Stevie ripped the paper from the printer along the perforated line and slapped it down on the counter in front of him. “Sign here. And put your car’s licence plate down here,” she said, pointing with the tip of a well-chewed pen. “Wouldn’t want your car to get towed in the middle of the night, now would we?”

Patrick glanced up at her. She calmly stared back at him, a triumphant look on her face. 

“N-no. Wouldn’t want that at all.”

He quickly filled in his information, checking and then double checking that his licence plate was correct. 

He pushed the paper back across the desk to Stevie. She turned and grabbed a key from the peg board behind her. “Here. Room 5,” she said, sliding the key across the desk. “Have a pleasant stay. Please hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Patrick replied, reaching for the key. “Wait...what?”

“I said enjoy your stay.”

* * *

  
**Chapter 4**

“Ugh!”

“I’m really sorry. I don’t get to choose who gets audited,” Patrick said, his eyes transfixed on the face of the man in front of him. “I just...I get handed a file and I have to do my job. So...”

_There was something about the way the other man’s dark eyes flashed and his prominent but manicured brows furrowed in a frown that was just so alluring. Patrick was struck with the notion that it might be fun to tease that look onto the man’s face again. And then there was his mouth; full lips pressed tightly together in a crooked line, framed by a cultivated stubble that Patrick longed to reach out and touch._

Patrick swallowed hard. He absolutely did _not_ want to touch that stubble. He was pretty sure. Maybe 87% sure. His wristwatch disagreed. It felt strongly that Patrick wanted very much to touch that stubble. 

The man rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he snapped. “But just because you have a job to do doesn’t mean I have to make it easy on you.”

He disappeared behind a curtain and reappeared with a large box stuffed with random receipts, papers and files. He set the box down onto the counter in front of Patrick, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his crooked lips. 

Patrick’s eyes went wide. “Oh God. Th-those are your files?” He knew he should be horrified. But there was something about that smirk that was doing things to Patrick’s insides. “This is how you keep your business records?”

The man shook his head, the smirk widening wolfishly. He crossed his arms over his chest, covering the white lightning bolt that adorned the front of his very expensive looking sweater. “No. I actually keep very meticulous records,” he replied, his eyes glittering with mischief. “I did this just for you, _Tax Man.”_

Patrick felt his own lips twitch, and he had to work hard to tamp down the smile that was threatening to break free. He glanced down at the box. It was a mess. Years worth of receipts, ledgers, spreadsheets, invoices to be gone through, all just stuffed in there. It was going to take him weeks to go through all of this, just to get it organized. Never mind actually reviewing the data for his audit. “Fine,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Do you have a space for me to work? A desk or something? Somewhere I’ll be out of your way?”

“How about Toronto?” the man offered, raising one magnificent eyebrow in challenge. “That would be out of my way.”

“Mr. Rose—“ Patrick began.

“David.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My name is David. Mr. Rose is my father.”

“Fine. David,” Patrick said, holding out his hand. “My name is Patrick. Patrick Brewer. It’s nice to meet you.”

David looked down at Patrick’s offered hand. “Wish I could say the same, Mr. Brewer,” David shot back. He ignored Patrick’s outstretched hand and shoved the box across the counter. “Bring that. You can use my desk.” David disappeared behind the curtain once more. 

_Patrick stood rooted to the spot and stared at the curtain as it fell back into place behind David. There was something about him, about those dark eyes, the way his hands moved, his expressive features, the wave of dark hair that rose above his forehead—_

“Please. Not now,” Patrick muttered under his breath. 

_There was no denying it. David Rose was beautiful. And despite his abrupt manner, his chilly reception, Patrick was smitten._

Patrick scoffed, rolling his eyes. _Smitten._ Sure. 

“Are you coming or not?” David asked, peering out at Patrick from a gap in the curtain.

“Oh, um, yes. Yup.”

David narrowed his eyes. “Bring that box and get in here.”

_David’s demanding tone did something to Patrick. A frisson of lust ran up his spine, and he—_

“Oh my God,” Patrick sighed as he grabbed the box and hefted it up into his arms. He made his way awkwardly around the counter, elbowing his way through the curtain into a tidy back office and storage area. David pointed at a small desk set in the corner. 

“You can work here,” he said. 

Patrick nodded and set the box down with a groan. “Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re not welcome,” David shot back with a look that could have peeled paint. “I’ll be out front running my business. Don’t make a nuisance of yourself.”

“I won’t.”

David gave an imperious nod and swept aside the curtain, heading back out into the main area of the store.

Patrick set his briefcase down on the floor and sat down at the desk. He ran his fingers through his short hair and stared down into the mess of papers David had boxed up for him.

_Despite the monumental task set before him, Patrick couldn’t stop thinking about the man on the other side of the curtain. All dark features and glossy, thick hair. Patrick wondered what it would feel like to run his fingers through that hair._

Patrick shook his head. He was still at least 72% certain that the voice was wrong. 

_He wondered if that hair was as soft as it looked. He thought about David’s mouth, turned down in a frown, one corner tucking up into a smirk. He wondered how David would look when he smiled. Patrick bet that he would be gorgeous._

Patrick leaned forward and let his forehead rest against the cool wood of David’s desk. The voice was bad enough when it was right. But it was absolutely unbearable now that it was just distracting him with these ridiculous thoughts. There was no way he was attracted to David Rose. 

Patrick sat up and raked his fingers through his hair. He was confident enough in his manhood to admit when another guy was good-looking. And David _was_ good-looking. Incredibly good-looking. Probably the most good-looking man Patrick had ever seen. But that didn’t mean anything.

Patrick’s wristwatch beeped and he glanced down at it to see that the store was scheduled to close in a little over an hour. His wristwatch stared back at him, wondering exactly how long it would take for Patrick to realize what it had figured out the moment Patrick had first seen David Rose.

_Patrick felt a stirring deep in his loins. David Rose was the most beautiful man he had ever seen._

Patrick’s cheeks flushed with warmth. There was a kind of wobbly feeling in his stomach, but that could be from the very suspicious sandwich he’d picked up at a gas station on the drive up. It was most definitely _not_ a “ _stirring deep in his loins”._

Patrick kept telling himself that for the next hour as he set to work on organizing David’s files. His wristwatch delighted every time it heard David’s voice on the other side of the curtain. It positively glowed when David came close enough for Patrick and his wristwatch to catch a whiff of the smoky, woodsy cologne he wore.

And when David came back to grab a box of lotion from a shelf beside the desk where Patrick was working, his wristwatch beeped happily.

“Your timer is going off,” David muttered, glancing sidelong at Patrick as he reached for the box on the highest shelf.

Patrick frowned and pressed the buttons on his watch, perplexed as to why it was flashing and beeping, and a little bit embarrassed at having David witness his incompetence when dealing with his timepiece. “Oh. Yeah, thanks. I just...I don't remember…I mean, I don’t think I set a timer.” He put his hand over the face of his watch and grimaced apologetically at David. “Sorry.”

David rolled his eyes. “Here. Let me see it,” he said, holding out his hand. 

Patrick carefully unfastened the strap and slipped the watch from his wrist. As he handed it to David, the wristwatch made a jarringly loud bleep, causing Patrick to flinch and David to twitch and their hands touched. 

And Patrick’s wristwatch went silent.  
  


* * *

  
**Chapter 5**

Patrick looked on as David fiddled with the wristwatch before handing it back with a shrug.

“It’s a nice watch,” David said, and the wristwatch preened at the compliment as David turned back to the shelf he’d been reaching for before Patrick’s wristwatch had lost its mind. 

“Oh, uh, thanks,” Patrick said, fastening the band around his wrist. “It was a gift. From my parents when I got my MBA.”

From his perch atop the small step ladder, David looked back down at Patrick. Whether he was impressed or merely curious was impossible for Patrick to gauge. “An MBA? Wow,” David said, his tone casual as he reached to the top shelf for the box of lotion. “And here I’d assumed that you must have majored in harassing small business owners out of their hard earned money.”

Patrick felt the edges of his lips tip upward in response. “Well, I actually double majored; Economics and Small Business Harassment. But I got my MBA too, just in case that didn’t pan out for me.”

David huffed out a soft chuckle, the corner of his mouth curling upward in the barest hint of a smile. He drew his lower lip into his mouth, rising up onto the tips of his toes to nudge the box of lotion closer to the edge of the shelf.

_Patrick’s eyes were instantly drawn to the sliver of skin exposed at the small of David’s back, just below the hem of his sweater. The stretch of smooth olive skin above the perfect roundness of David’s backside, encased in a pair of jeans that might as well have been painted on, for how well they fit. Patrick wondered longingly if David’s cheeks were as firm as they looked; how they would fit against the curves of his palms; what sounds David would make if Patrick squeezed—_

“God,” Patrick murmured to himself, closing his eyes and blowing out a long, slow breath. He had to concede that perhaps the voice was on to something, if the way Patrick’s groin was throbbing was anything to go by. He was now only 49% certain that the voice had no idea what it was talking about. He couldn’t recall ever having been so turned on before. He was so hard, and so hot. All over the briefest glimpse of exposed flesh.

“Shit! Oh, fuck!”

David’s panicked voice broke through Patrick’s feverish thoughts. He opened his eyes to see it all happening in slow motion: the step ladder shifting, David losing his balance, his fingers clawing at the shelf to no avail, David falling—and Patrick reacted. On his feet in an instant, he placed a steadying hand on that soft patch of skin at the small of David’s back. He braced himself, absorbed David’s weight and took a step back, catching David in his arms, David’s hands clutched desperately at the lapels of Patrick’s jacket, their faces a hair's breadth apart.

_Their breaths came in deep, synchronous gasps. Patrick could feel the warmth of David’s breath on his face, smell the sweet scent of the coffee he must have had earlier in the day. His dark eyes stared back at Patrick, wide and startled, his lips parted in a perfect ‘O’. They were so close. All Patrick had to do was lean in, brush his lips against David’s—_

“Are you okay?” Patrick asked, shoving aside the insane desire to kiss a man he’d just met, a man he was _auditing,_ for heaven's sake. A man that had made it clear that he was merely tolerating Patrick’s presence, and only because it was government mandated. Patrick helped David get his feet under him, helped him stand up, and kept his hands firmly on David’s waist, feeling him tremble beneath his fingertips. “God, you’re shaking.”

“I-I’m alright,” David said, his voice wavering. He offered Patrick a tremulous smile. “Thank you. I…well. Just, thank you.”

Patrick smiled and removed his hands from the warmth of David’s body, shoving them deep in his pockets. “It was my pleasure,” he said, then grimaced. “I mean…it wasn’t my pleasure that you fell. I just…I’m glad I was here. To catch you.”

David drew his lips between his teeth and nodded, eyes looking everywhere but at Patrick. “Me too.” He glanced up at the box of lotion, still sitting tauntingly and triumphantly on the top shelf. He rolled his eyes and flapped his hands agitatedly around him, clearing his throat as he did so. “I’m, um…I’m going to close up.” David gestured to the desk, liberally scattered with the papers Patrick had diligently been sorting through. “You can leave all this for tonight and we’ll pick up again tomorrow.”

“Okay, David,” Patrick said. “What time do you open?”

“Well, I’m not really a morning person, but I’ve been told that keeping regular store hours builds customer loyalty,” David smirked, poised in the doorway, one hand on the curtain. “I open at 10am.”

David slipped past the curtain. Patrick sat down at the desk and quickly organized David’s paperwork while he vaguely registered the sounds of David ringing out the cash and printing his end-of-day till tape. With everything neatly put away, Patrick glanced at his wristwatch, wondering if there was anywhere good to eat in this town.

David came back through the curtain carrying the cash tin and receipts from the till. Patrick moved out of the way so David could sit down and count out his float for the next day. He watched as David carefully and meticulously counted and recounted the till, then checked and double checked the figures on his till tape against those in his ledger. Apparently satisfied, he set everything in the safe beside the desk and spun the lock.

“So...plans for tonight?” David asked, walking with Patrick toward the front door.

“Got to find somewhere to eat. Then I guess I’ll just head back to the motel for an early night,” Patrick said. “Any tips on a good place to eat around here?”

David grimaced as he opened the front door and gestured for Patrick to go out ahead of him. “Yeah, no,” David said, closing the door behind him and turning his key in the lock. He gave the door a jiggle and, seemingly satisfied, turned his attention back to Patrick. “There’s nowhere good to eat around here. Just the cafe—“ he nodded his head to indicate the building across the street, “—where the food is only _moderately_ edible.”

_Patrick nodded his head, one hand shoved deep in his pocket, the other clutching the handle of his briefcase. The feeling of David’s soft skin against his palms still burned hot in his sense-memory. He wanted to touch David again._

_What he didn’t want was for this day to end. He didn’t want to let David go just yet. He wanted to ask David to have dinner with him, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Fraternizing with the subject of an audit was deeply, deeply frowned upon in his line of work. Not to mention that very few auditees really wanted to spend more time than was absolutely necessary with their auditors. But if there was only one place to eat, and they were both going there for dinner—_

“Anyway, my family is probably waiting for me,” David said, checking the time on his cell phone. He glanced up at Patrick. “So if there’s nothing else you need, I’ll see you here tomorrow morning.”

Patrick inclined his head. “Yup. Yes. Ten o’clock. I’ll be here,” he said, trying hard to keep the note of disappointment from his voice. He’d made it through thirty-plus years of his life without David Rose. He could make it through one night.

* * *

  
**Chapter 6**

  
He could not make it through one night. 

Patrick had made his way to the cafe and eaten a very sub-par tuna melt. Alone. Then he’d returned to the motel and his sub-par room. Alone. He’d changed into a pair of faded grey jogging pants and an equally lacklustre t-shirt and a non-descript hoodie, reclining on the bed trying to watch TV, but had been unable to concentrate on anything, so he’d turned it off and picked up his book.

After reading the same sentence for the fifth time, he’d tossed his book onto the bedside table and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. There was a stain just above the head of the bed that looked a little like a dinosaur if Patrick squinted just so, and that entertained him for all of thirty seconds. Then he was on his feet, pacing around the small room.

The voice—the _narrator,_ for lack of a better word—had been very illuminating today. But why today? And why Patrick? His life was boring. Predictable. Rachel had always joked that she could set her clocks by him, he stuck so rigidly to his schedule. Why on earth would anyone write about boring, predictable Patrick?

Patrick paused in his pacing. Today had been the first day in twelve years that he had veered from his carefully structured life. Was that why this was happening? Was he suddenly becoming interesting? He glanced over by the door where he had neatly placed his sturdy brown shoes. He opened the closet where he had hung his changes of clothes for the week as soon as he had checked into his room. More basic, boring, sensible clothes, all hanging neatly in a row. He was pretty sure that nothing about him, about any of him, was in danger of being considered interesting.

And yet, for the first time in his life, that didn’t sit well with him. David Rose was interesting. His clothes, his appearance, his personality, his store. They were all interesting. And it bothered Patrick that David might see him as boring. Forgettable. 

Patrick’s wristwatch bleeped. He glanced down at it. It was time to shower and get ready for bed. He scrubbed his hands wearily over his face. He went to the bathroom and flicked on the light. 

No towels.

With a sigh, Patrick shoved his feet into his hiking shoes and grabbed his room key from the bedside table and left the room, ensuring the door was locked behind him. He made his way along the walkway to the office, hoping that the surly woman from earlier was still there. Or perhaps a more amenable and less antagonistic coworker.

The “Open” sign in the office window was dark, but there was still a light on in the office. Patrick gave the doorknob a twist. It was locked. He knocked softly on the door.

“Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying!” Stevie’s voice rang out from behind the door, slightly slurred.

“Uh, it’s Patrick Brewer, from Room 5,” Patrick said, knocking again. “I just...I need some towels.” His request was met with a fit of giggles from another, non-Stevie voice. But one that was nevertheless familiar to Patrick and his wristwatch.

“Oh my God! Stevie, you forgot his fucking towels!”

“Shhh! Shut up, David!”

“You shut up!”

Patrick knocked again, harder this time. “Please, Stevie? I just need some towels and I’ll leave you alone.”

Patrick stood, listening intently to snatches of the whispered argument happening on the other side of the door. It seemed that towels were an in-joke between David and Stevie, and David thought it was hysterical that Stevie had neglected to leave any in Patrick’s bathroom.

Finally, the lock clicked and the door opened. Stevie stood on the other side, one hand on her hip, the other holding a stack of what appeared to be face cloths. 

“Here,” she said, thrusting the inadequate pile of cloth at Patrick. “Have a good night.”

“No, wait!” Patrick exclaimed, sticking his foot into the gap in the door and wincing when Stevie attempted to slam it shut. “These…I mean...these aren’t towels.” Patrick held up one small square of the grittiest material he had ever touched. It felt like sandpaper between his fingers. 

Stevie rolled her eyes and held the door open wide, gesturing for Patrick to enter. He glanced over at the couch where David was curled up, looking cozy and satisfied and for all the world like a large, happy cat. Patrick wondered if David would appreciate the simile, or if he would balk at the comparison. An empty wine bottle sat on the coffee table in front of David and he held another half-empty bottle, poised mid-pour into the red plastic Solo cup in his other hand. 

David grinned at him, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Uh oh,” he said, giving his shoulders a ridiculous shimmy that shouldn't have made Patrick’s pants grow tight, but somehow did. “The towel police are here!”

_Patrick smiled nervously, his insides twisting into knots. He had come to the office for towels. He had not been mentally or emotionally prepared to encounter David Rose again. Especially not a slightly intoxicated, mildly flirtatious David Rose._

Patrick blinked and swallowed hard. “Um, hi. Hello, David.”

“Oh, hi,” David replied, voice breathy and at least a few notes lower than his normal register. He shimmied his shoulders again. Patrick’s pants grew even tighter and he discretely tugged at the hem of his hoodie to ensure that his body’s reaction was not obvious to David.

“I um, I thought you were meeting your family tonight?” Patrick asked, hoping that his voice sounded as casual as he’d intended. So David had blown him off after closing up the store. So what? Patrick was a stranger to him. A stranger here to audit and inconvenience him.

“Mmm. I did,” David said, his lips twisting up on one side and down on the other in a complicated half-frown half-smile that did things to Patrick's insides. “And now I need wine.” Patrick watched as David poured the remains of the bottle into his cup, testing the capacity of the red plastic as the wine came dangerously close to overflowing. He offered the empty bottle to Patrick. “Want some?”

Patrick’s lips twitched. “Even if I said yes, it looks like you’re all out.”

David waggled his impressive eyebrows. “There’s more where that came from,” he stage-whispered conspiratorially, setting down the empty bottle and reaching down beside the arm of the couch, producing another bottle of wine. “See? Magic.”

“I shouldn’t,” Patrick said, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, wondering what the hell was taking Stevie so long with his towels.

“Mmm,” David hummed, setting the bottle down with a dull thud on the table beside the empties. “There’s a lot of things you shouldn’t do. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do them,” he said with all the sagacity of a man half in the bag.

Patrick couldn’t help but laugh. “Actually, that’s exactly what that means.”

David narrowed his eyes, taking a long, thoughtful sip of his wine. “Do you spend a lot of time worrying about what you should and shouldn’t do? _”_ His dark eyes bored right through Patrick, challenging him and making him squirm uncomfortably. “I bet there are a lot of things you want to do, Patrick Brewer. But you don’t, because you _shouldn’t.”_

“Uh…” Patrick’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “I’ll um...I’ll have that drink. Thanks.”

David’s lips curled upward in victory and he grabbed another plastic cup from the table and proceeded to slosh a generous amount into Patrick’s cup. “Here,” he said, handing the cup to Patrick. Their fingers brushed again as Patrick accepted it, and a tingle ran up his arm, filling his chest with warmth. He felt his ears flush hot and pink.

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking a tentative sip. The wine was robust and fruity, but not too sweet. It was delicious, and Patrick said so.

“It’s from the store,” David said, taking a generous gulp from his own cup. “There are a handful of wineries in the area, and Stevie and I were forced to do a _lot_ of market research before I settled on this particular vintner.”

Patric took another appreciative sip and smiled as he swallowed. “Such a burden,” he teased, his chest expanding at the evident delight in David’s eyes. “However did you cope?”

“Lots of wine,” David replied, that lopsided smile/frown back on his face. “They also do a fabulous Pinot Grigio, if white wine is more your thing.”

Patrick shook his head. “No, I actually prefer red.” Something about his answer seemed to pique David’s interest, and his eyes glittered knowingly, a small, private smile on his face.

Patrick set the stack of face cloths on the coffee table and sat cautiously on the arm of the couch furthest away from David. “Um, can I ask you a question?”

David glanced at him, sipped his wine, and nodded.

“Did I do something to annoy Stevie?” Patrick asked, watching as David cocked an eyebrow at the question. “Or is she this _hospitable_ with everyone that comes to stay at the motel?”

A genuine smile broke out on David’s face and he snorted indelicately. “She’s pretty much the same with everyone who comes to stay here,” David said, screwing up his lips into an amused little knot. 

“But?”

David sighed. “But...she’s being a little extra with you because you’re…well because of why you’re here.”

“Okay.” Patrick furrowed his brow. “Well, I guess that’s fair. No one really likes auditors. Occupational hazard,” he said with a self-deprecating shrug. “It’s just, this seems like something else. Like a whole other level of dislike.”

David’s gaze dropped to the red cup in his hands. “She just...she knows what happened the last time Revenue Canada came knocking at my family’s door,” he said softly. He shrugged and let out a mirthless chuckle. “So maybe she’s being a little extra protective.”

Patrick frowned. “What...oh. _Oh.”_

 _  
_ It hit him like a bolt of lightning. Of course he remembered the scandal surrounding Rose Video, and the entire Rose family. It had been all over the news a few years ago, and Patrick had never connected the name before this exact moment. He would never have imagined that David Rose of Rose Apothecary—the boutique shop with the name that was just pretentious enough—would be the same David Rose whose family had lost everything in the blink of an eye. 

He watched David who was suddenly very immersed in examining his cuticles. “I’m so sorry, David. I didn’t realize...I mean, I can’t even imagine how hard that must have been for you.”

_David suddenly looked very small. Very fragile. Something deep inside Patrick wanted to pull him close, wanted to hold David, comfort him. Patrick felt his cheeks flush with a heat that had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the thought of David in his arms: how his hair might smell, how soft his sweater might be, what his stubble would feel like pressed into the tender flesh of Patrick’s neck._

Patrick closed his eyes and let out a steadying breath. It was becoming harder and harder not to lean in to the words echoing in that now familiar voice in his head. He was almost 90% convinced by this point that whoever’s voice he was hearing knew exactly what they were talking about. 

“I’m not here to do that to you, David,” Patrick promised, softly but with intention. “It’s just a standard audit. It happens all the time with new businesses. I’m not going to take your store away from you.”

David nodded, still averting his gaze. “Mmhmm,” he hummed quietly. He let out a shaky breath. “It’s just...I’ve never done this before—run a business on my own—and I don’t want to fuck this up.”

Patrick offered a smile that he hoped was encouraging. He didn’t know how to respond to the stark honesty of David’s words. So he said nothing, awkwardly sipping his wine and wracking his brain for something he could say to David that didn’t sound like false platitudes. His train of thought was derailed when two things happened at once: his watch beeped loudly to remind him that it was time for him to go to bed, and Stevie returned, unceremoniously handing him a small stack of towels that smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke, and were just as rough and sandpapery as the face cloths.

With one last glance at David, who was still not meeting his eyes, Patrick excused himself and headed back to his room. 

* * *

_  
_ **Chapter 7**

_Despite being out of his natural habitat of a carefully planned and scheduled life, Patrick Brewer was happy. Possibly for the first time in his adult life. Away from the hustle and bustle of the city, away from the expectations of his family and coworkers, he had come to a realization about himself that somehow, set him free._

_Patrick Brewer was gay. And he had the hots for David Rose. All in all, not a bad thing. But the fact that David lived in a small town over three hours from Toronto was only the first of many issues that needed addressing. There was the added complication that Patrick was currently auditing David’s business. Oh, and David had no idea that Patrick was—most inconveniently—falling in love with him._

Patrick bolted upright in bed, looking wildly around him. He was in the same dingy and dated room with the same dinosaur-shaped stain on the ceiling. The ancient TV that got all of five channels stared soullessly back at him from the foot of the bed, the menacing and abrasive towels leering at him from the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

Over the last week and a half, this had been Patrick’s home away from home. And despite its lack of charm, it was becoming familiar and he breathed a sigh of relief. He glanced down at his wristwatch. It was five AM, long before he had to get up, but he was awake now, for better or worse. 

He stumbled to the bathroom, blinking blearily at his reflection before turning on the tap and splashing a handful of cold water over his face. 

_Falling in love with him._ That’s what the voice had said. That he was falling in love with David. He splashed a second handful of icy water over his face, then another, as if the act of washing his face could erase that ridiculous notion from his mind. He turned off the tap and grabbed one of the face cloths, gritting his teeth against the roughness on his skin. 

He was _not_ in love with David. That kind of feeling...it took ages. Months at least. Not days. Patrick had been in Schitt’s Creek for ten days and he was _not_ in love with David. It was a crush—a mild infatuation—nothing more. When he was done with this audit, he would say goodbye to David and go back to his life in Toronto, where every minute of every day was carefully and methodically laid out in neat orderly blocks of time. 

And then what? 

Patrick picked up his toothbrush and squeezed out a generous glob of toothpaste. He began to brush his teeth, his mind meandering over the past 10 days.

Since his unexpected encounter with David in the motel’s office, David had been decidedly less frosty with Patrick, even going so far as to bring him a coffee when they met at the store the next morning. Patrick had smiled and accepted the coffee, setting it aside while he got to work on David’s papers and failing to mention to David that he was more of a tea drinker. He appreciated the gesture for what it was—an olive branch of sorts, for the rocky start they’d gotten off to the previous day.

Even Stevie seemed to have come around. On Thursday night when Patrick returned to his room, a stack of clean towels that were slightly less abrasive were sitting neatly on the foot of his bed.

During lulls in traffic at the store, David would lean against the doorway between the office and the sales floor and chat, gesturing wildly and gracing Patrick with stories of his life before Schitt’s Creek.

Sometimes he would ask questions about how he could maybe be more efficient in various aspects of the business, shyly beseeching Patrick to share his wealth of knowledge. Patrick had been quietly compiling a list of recommendations for David, for after he left. He was an auditor, yes, but a little thrill thrummed through him at finally being able to put his MBA to good use.

Leaning over the sink, Patrick spat out his mouthful of foamy suds and rinsed off his toothbrush. Then he froze, staring at his reflection. 

_He hadn’t counted. For the first time in 12 years, Patrick Brewer had not counted a single stroke as he brushed his teeth. He had been too busy thinking about David._

Patrick smiled and his reflection smiled back at him. He felt lighter than air, somehow. Freed. He’d not counted, and no unspeakable tragedy had befallen him. He’d not counted, because the monotony of his daily routine had been replaced by the technicolour vivacity that David Rose brought to his life.

Maybe the voice wasn’t so wrong after all. 

Patrick headed back to his room and opened his closet. A row of plain suits stared back at him, uninspiring. He closed the closet and reached for the drawer in the dresser instead, where he’d unpacked his more casual clothes. It was a Friday after all. Didn’t some workplaces have casual Fridays? Patrick had never worked in such an environment before, but he was out of the big, sterile office in Toronto now. No one would know if, just this once, he let himself relax just a little. 

He grabbed a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt, and the periwinkle blue v-neck sweater Rachel had bought for him. He’d graciously accepted the sweater from her, but had never worn it. He wasn’t even sure why he’d bothered to pack it, but was glad he had. He got dressed, cinched the waist of his jeans with his favourite braided leather belt, and pulled on his hiking shoes. If he was going to go casual, he might as well go all out.

As Patrick dressed, his wristwatch glowed with pride. It would never say anything, but thought that this particular pair of jeans did some very complimentary things to Patrick’s backside. 

With a final glance at his appearance in the full length mirror affixed to the back of the closet door, Patrick grinned and nodded at his reflection. Then he grabbed his keys and phone and headed out the door.

Patrick drove aimlessly. It was far too early to go to the store. David wouldn't be there for at least another hour. So he found a little trail that meandered through the woods and ended up at a quiet little creek that babbled merrily, the early morning sun glinting off the ripples on the water’s surface. Patrick wondered if this was the eponymous creek after which the town was named.

He found a rock near the edge of the creek and sat down, staring off into the middle distance as he thought about what to do. 

He had about a week’s worth of work left to do at the store. Then he could compile his data and complete his final report. Back home. In Toronto. 

_A deep ache grew in the pit of Patrick’s stomach at the mere notion of returning to Toronto, of leaving David behind. The idea of not seeing him every day caused a lump to form—large and uncomfortable—in the back of Patrick’s throat._

But he couldn’t just not go back. He had a condo. A mortgage. A job. He had nothing here. Not even David. Not really. 

Patrick’s face crumpled. He rested his elbows on his knees, put his face in his hands, and cried.

His wristwatch observed, silently. It wanted to help, but what could it do? It could not offer a consoling pat on the back, or a comforting word of advice. It could only watch and hope and occasionally nudge Patrick in the right direction with a well timed bleep. It ground it’s gears, trying to think of something it could do.

Patrick sniffled and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He was no closer to figuring out what to do, but he knew that before he left, he wanted to tell David how he felt. He needed to know if there was even the slightest chance that David felt the same way. If he did, then maybe they could figure it out together. If he didn’t...well, then Patrick would cross that bridge if he came to it.

His wristwatch bleeped and flashed at him and he glanced down, noting the time. He needed to get going. He was suddenly overcome with a giddy excitement that was utterly foreign to him. He had never felt like this before, had never looked forward to seeing anyone as much as he found himself looking forward to seeing David each day.

He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet, retracing his steps back to his car, his mood lightening the closer he got to town.

He was still early enough that David was not yet at the store. So Patrick parked in the small alley behind Rose Apothecary and jogged across the street to the cafe where he greeted Twyla by name.

“Good morning, Patrick!” she said cheerily from behind the counter. “My, don’t you look different this morning!”

“Oh, do I?” Patrick feigned ignorance, biting his lip to hold back a grin. 

Twyla beamed at him. “You look happy,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully. “It looks good on you.”

Patrick ducked his head shyly. “Thanks,” he replied. “Um, just a tea and one of those morning glory muffins for me please, Twyla.”

“Sure thing, Patrick,” she said, turning to get a to-go cup and a tea bag.

“Actually—“ Patrick paused, drumming his fingers on the counter top. Twyla turned and looked questioningly over her shoulder at him. “Um...what does David usually order in the morning?”

Twyla’s smile widened. “A caramel macchiato, skim milk, with two sweeteners and a sprinkle of cocoa powder,” she said without hesitation. “And a blueberry muffin.”

Patrick had to chuckle. Because of course David would have the most complicated coffee order on the planet. “Well, add those to my order too, please,” he said. Twyla nodded and set off to prepare the drinks and fetch the muffins.

A few minutes later, she handed Patrick a paper bag and a drink tray with two to-go cups nestled inside. Patrick tapped his debit card against the Interac machine and gave Twyla a friendly wave as he headed out the door and back across the street. He could just see David walking up the street from the direction of the motel and Patrick mentally slapped his forehead. He should have offered David a ride!

David smiled at him from behind a pair of round, white framed sunglasses that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. 

“You look very nice,” David said, and Patrick felt a little rumble of pleasure in the pit of his stomach. “Very dashing.”

”Just, you know...a little something different,” Patrick replied, the apples of his cheeks prickling with warmth.

“Mmm,” David hummed appreciatively and Patrick felt David’s eyes on him from behind his sunglasses. “Ooh, somebody’s been busy this morning!” David nodded down at Patrick’s wares from the cafe while digging his keys from his pocket and heading to the front door of the store. 

“Yeah. I’ve been up since five,” Patrick admitted with a nervous flutter in his stomach. “Could not sleep. Just thinking about...stuff.”

He followed David inside and set the bag and the tray down on the counter.

“Oh? Nothing bad, I hope,” David asked, taking off his sunglasses and fixing Patrick with a slightly anxious frown. 

Patrick shoved his hands deep in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He let his eyes rest on David and felt his chest swell with the warmth of affection. “No, David. Nothing bad.”

“Okay. Good,” David replied with a small, evasive smile before his gaze fluttered down to the goodies on the counter. “Um, is that—“

“Caramel macchiato, skim milk, with two sweeteners and a sprinkle of cocoa powder with a blueberry muffin on the side? Why yes it is,” Patrick said, a note of triumph in his voice. He removed the cups from the tray and handed one to David, who stared back at him with wide eyes, his lips drawn between his teeth in an attempt to hide his smile. 

“Thanks,” David replied softly, losing the battle with his smile. And Patrick marvelled once more at David’s beauty.

“You’re welcome,” Patrick said, taking a sip of his drink. The warm liquid touched his tongue and he sputtered, smacking his lips and staring at the offending cup in his hands.

“Is that maybe my coffee?” David asked, amusement colouring his features.

“Ugh. Well, it’s definitely not my tea,” Patrick grimaced.

“Mmm. Well, I’m not usually one to share drinks,” David said, holding out Patrick’s tea and exchanging it for his own horrifically sweet concoction. “But you seem like you have a clean mouth, so I’ll allow it.”

With that, David spun on his heel and disappeared behind the curtain to get out the cash, leaving Patrick blinking stupidly after him, his mouth gaping open in a most unattractive manner. 

Patrick snapped his mouth closed. “Um...I have a clean mouth?” he called out in question.

“Yeah,” David replied as he elbowed through the curtain, cash tin balanced on one hand, coffee in the other. “You know,” he said, opening the register and dropping in the cash tin before nudging the drawer closed with his hip. “Some people have sloppy, dirty mouths. And some have nice, clean mouths.” Without breaking eye contact with Patrick, David put his lips to the lid of his cup—tasting where Patrick’s lips had been only moments earlier—and took a long, satisfying sip. “Mmm...I was right. Nice and clean.”

“Oh my God,” Patrick murmured under his breath, his skin prickling with heat and his jeans suddenly uncomfortably tight. “And, um...and _your_ mouth?” Patrick asked, his voice trembling, tongue thick and hot in his mouth. 

David set down his coffee and placed both hands down on the counter, leaning forward so his face was mere inches from Patrick’s. 

“Filthy,” he said in a voice so low and rough that all the blood in Patrick’s body rushed straight to his groin.

_And then Patrick Brewer did something he had never done in his entire life. He threw all caution to the wind. He let go of all his inhibitions, all of his rules and shouldn’ts and mustn’ts, and he reached across the counter to slide his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of David’s neck, and kissed him._

* * *

  
**Chapter 8**

_Fireworks went off behind Patrick’s eyes. His body tingled all over and his knees went weak and wobbly. David’s hair was just as soft as he’d hoped. The stubble around David’s mouth was rough, but not unpleasantly so. It just made Patrick all the more aware that he was kissing a man. He was kissing David. And David was kissing him back._

It wasn’t desperate or urgent. It was cautious, tentative, delicate. It was the best kiss of Patrick’s life, and as he felt David pull away, Patrick let out a soft moan of protest. He licked his lips, tasting the lingering hint of David on the tip of his tongue. When he opened his eyes, David was smiling shyly at him. 

“Hi,” David said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey,” Patrick replied. He let his fingers linger at the back of David’s neck, not quite ready to sever the physical connection between them. “Um, I...I’ve never done that before,” Patrick said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could think better of it. “Um, with a guy. So…”

David blinked at him and pulled back, out of reach of Patrick’s grasp. “Oh. Okay.” His lips twisted into a nervous little bow. “So...regrets?”

“What? No!” Patrick said with an emphatic shake of his head. “No, David. No regrets.” 

David nodded, his mouth curling up on one side, that lopsided smile gracing his features once again. “Okay.” 

Patrick’s wristwatch buzzed and hummed happily. It could feel Patrick’s pulse racing in his wrist, nervousness and excitement pulsing through his body. Patrick had never felt like this when he had kissed Rachel, or the handful of other girls he’d been with. This was different. This was important. And Patrick’s wristwatch delighted in the sheer joy it could feel radiating through Patrick. 

A loud banging on the front door startled the two men and one observant timepiece out of the moment. Patrick turned to see a shaggy-haired, bearded man he had come to recognize as the mayor peering through the glass. 

“Hey, Dave!” the man called out, smacking the glass with the flat of his hand. “You gonna open any time soon, or are you and the Tax Man gonna suck face all morning?”

David sighed and tipped his head back. “Fuck,” he muttered quietly. “Of all the people to see...that,” he grinned sheepishly at Patrick. “The entire town is going to know about this within the hour. Just so you know.”

“I’m okay with that,” Patrick said, his eyes drifting down to David’s mouth, his lips already yearning for another taste. “I’m not ashamed of kissing you, David. I don’t care who knows.”

“You say that now,” David replied, leaning in again, his eyes crinkled in a smile, his lips hovering over Patrick’s.

“Daaaaave!” the man outside shouted again, jiggling the handle and tapping on the glass impatiently. “Come on! I ran outta foot cream and my feet are really itchy!”

“Maybe you should let him in,” Patrick suggested, taking a step back from the counter, away from David. 

David rolled his eyes. “You only say that because you’re not the one who will have to deal with him and hear all about his itchy feet.”

“The perils of small business ownership,” Patrick consoled teasingly. 

David narrowed his eyes at Patrick. “And suddenly the man who spends his days hiding in back rooms buried in paperwork wants to fraternize with customers?” he asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Are you ill? Or did that kiss render you temporarily insane?”

Patrick squirmed uncomfortably. “I just...I guess I’m just opening myself up to new experiences,” he said haltingly.

“Mmm,” David hummed noncommittally. He set aside his coffee and rounded the counter, placing a hand on Patrick’s hip and squeezing gently as he passed by, letting his hand linger for just a moment. “If I were you I’d hide in the back. Like now,” he whispered in Patrick’s ear before pulling away and heading for the door.

Patrick ensconced himself at David’s desk, cringing as he listened to the mayor tell David all about his dry, itchy feet. In graphic detail. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone to scroll through his list of podcasts. There was one he’d seen the other day on Canadian authors that he wanted to listen to, and what better way to drown out the wholly unappetizing conversation happening on the other side of the curtain?

He pulled his earbuds from the briefcase he’d left at the store the other night and inserted them into his ears, pressing play on his phone as he began sorting through the rapidly dwindling pile of David’s paperwork.

“I’m here with author Veronica Lee,” the voice of the podcast host sounded, sonorous and comforting in Patrick’s ear. “Veronica, welcome!”

“Thank you for having me, Kurt,” came a voice that made all the hair on the back of Patrick’s neck stand on end. He froze, his heart thudding so loudly that he was certain David would be able to hear it in the other room. 

It was...it was _her._

“So, I understand you’ve been working on a new book,” the host said. “We haven’t had anything new from you in a few years, so this is very exciting! What can you tell us about it?”

Patrick sat in panicked silence, his breath coming in shallow, painful gasps. He listened as The Voice described her new book, her main character—a tax auditor, a boring Everyman who has a gay revelation while auditing a client in a small, backwater town in rural Ontario. A town called Schitt’s Creek.

“Now, Veronica, you are famous—or perhaps I should say _infamous—_ for the tragic endings you bestow on your characters,” the host said, his voice cheerful, blissfully unaware of the impact his words were having on his listener.

The Voice chuckled. “Well, I can’t give away my ending, Kurt,” she replied, her tone taunting. “But I can say that it’s going to be a real hum-dinger.”

“Oh my God,” Patrick gasped, pulling the earbuds from his ears and dropping them on the desk in front of him. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood, the chair toppling backward behind him. “Oh God.”

“Well that’s a conversation I can never unhear,” David’s voice drifted toward Patrick from miles away. There was a buzzing in his ears and he felt as if he was either going to faint or explode. One or the other. There was no middle ground. 

A gentle hand on Patricks shoulder made him jump, and he turned to see David standing beside him, his dark eyes clouded with worry. “Are you okay?”

Patrick couldn’t find the words. How was he supposed to explain it all to David? It would sound, well it would sound crazy. That’s how it would sound.

He opened his mouth, wanting to ease the concern he could see in the crease between David’s eyebrows, in the downward tilt of his soft, beautiful mouth. But no sound came out, and all Patrick could manage was a shake of his head before he grabbed his phone and his keys. 

As he shoved his way through the curtain, he glanced back over his shoulder one last time to see David staring after him, eyes glistening. 

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Patrick had no idea where he was going. He just knew he needed to get out of the store, get out of Schitt’s Creek. And find Veronica Lee.

While he drove, he asked Siri to find out about the elusive author: how could he reach her? What other books had she written? Was she really as horrible to her protagonists as the podcast host had suggested?

During the three hour drive back to Toronto, Patrick was able to locate her agent and leave a message, asking for an appointment with the author. Siri informed him that she had written five other books, in which each of her protagonists adventures had ended in tragic heartbreak. So, there was that.

Patrick drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He needed to stop for gas and something to eat. He’d forgotten the muffins he’d bought at the cafe on the desk when he’d bolted from the store. He’d left a lot of things: his briefcase, his clothes, his suitcase. David.

_David._

The dejected, crestfallen look on David’s face when he’d left...it made Patrick’s heart hurt. He hadn’t meant—God, the last thing he’d wanted to do was to hurt David. But in his panic, he had been careless and indelicate with David’s heart. And he knew that he owed David an explanation, but he couldn’t offer one until he gained a little clarity for himself.

He pulled into the gas station and got out, heading inside for a drink and an unappetizing shrink-wrapped sandwich. He prepaid for his gas and filled his tank, pulling the car back out onto the highway when he was done. His phone pinged. He hazarded a quick glance at it to see that while in the gas station, he had missed a call from an unknown number. Curious, he pressed the button to access his voicemail and set his phone to hands free.

“You son of a bitch!” Stevie’s voice erupted, loud and angry, over the car’s speakers. “You absolute, fucking asshole!” 

Patrick’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel.

“God, you knew— _you knew_ —what happened to him the last time you tax people got involved in his life! You knew that and you still—you know what? No. No, what you did was worse. So much worse! Because you knew what he went through and you made him trust you and like you, and then you took his heart and you just...you just stomped all over it!”

Patrick felt sick, his stomach roiling. 

“I’m packing all your shit up from your room. And I’m packing up your stuff from his store. Don’t you dare— _don’t you dare_ —bother him when you come back for it.”

The silence that engulfed the car when Stevie ended the call was deafening. Patrick’s eyes stung with tears and he felt his chin wobble. He quickly checked over his shoulder and then put on his blinker, pulling over to the side of the road where he put the car in park and let the tears come.

It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. None of it was. He was so confused, so frightened. What if he couldn’t find this Veronica Lee person? What if he found her and she didn’t believe him? What if she did believe him but refused to help?

It was bad enough that he was left feeling lost and confused. But the way he’d left David was just...Stevie was right; he was a fucking asshole. David deserved an explanation, he deserved to know that he had done nothing wrong, that Patrick really did care for him—maybe even loved him. 

For the second time that day, Patrick’s wristwatch looked on as Patrick fell apart. It too had seen the look on David’s face when Patrick left. It had felt the panic rising in Patrick, had wanted to intervene, to stop Patrick from leaving. But no amount of flashing or beeping could distract Patrick from getting in his car and driving away. 

Patrick cried until he physically could not cry anymore. He felt dehydrated and he ached all over. He pulled down the sun visor and flipped open the mirror, taking in his puffy, red-rimmed eyes and splotchy complexion. His first thought was how David would have had something—some magic elixir in a little jar—to fix him. Make him look more presentable. Less incorrect.

The thought of David made his throat constrict and he wanted to cry again, so he snapped the visor back into place and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. 

His phone chirped with an incoming call and Patrick raised his head to glance over at his call display. It was Veronica Lee’s agent returning his call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Lisa Edwards from Edwards and Brooks, Literary Agents. I’m returning a call from a Patrick Brewer?”

“Yes! Yes, that’s me! I’m Patrick Brewer!”

“You know, it’s funny,” Lisa said, amusement colouring her voice, “The author you were asking about...she is actually writing a book right now and the main character, well—“

“Let me guess,” Patrick interjected. “His name is Patrick Brewer?”

“Um, yes. That’s...how did you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” Patrick sighed. “So, can I meet her? I have some questions I need to ask.”

“Sorry, Mr. Brewer, but you weren’t clear in your message,” Lisa said, sounding unsure. “Are you a reporter, or—“

“Yes,” Patrick replied, his mind racing. “I, um...I write for the _Schitt’s Creek Chronicle.”_ He grimaced. All this woman had to do was a quick Google search to know he was lying. “It’s um…I believe our town is mentioned in her upcoming book.”

“Oh my God, that’s a real place?” Lisa chuckled. “I thought Ronnie was making it up!”

“Yeah, well…it’s real. And our town is very excited to be featured in this new book. So, if she’s available—“

“Of course. Um…” Lisa trailed off and Patrick could hear her fingernails clacking on a keyboard. “Well, you’re in luck. She’s actually free today. Can you be in Toronto this afternoon?”

“Absolutely,” Patrick said, letting out the breath he’d been holding. He listened as Lisa rattled off the address to her office, where she would arrange to have Patrick and Veronica—or was it Ronnie?—meet. 

He hung up the phone feeling hopeful for the first time since he’d driven away from Schitt’s Creek. He put the car back in gear and merged back into traffic.   
  


* * *

**Chapter 10**

Patrick stood as the door to the office opened and a woman with a neat blonde bob emerged, one hand extended in greeting.

“You must be Patrick,” she said, taking Patrick’s hand and gripping it warmly. “I’m Lisa.”

“Hi Lisa,” Patrick said, promptly shoving his hand back in his pocket as soon as Lisa released it. “Um, is Veronica—Ronnie—here?”

“She is!” Lisa nodded, gesturing down the hall. “She’s waiting for you in the conference room. It’s the last door on the left. I’ll send my assistant in shortly with tea and coffee.”

Patrick nodded, blowing out a slow, nervous breath as he headed down the hall. He paused outside of the conference room door, hand poised on the doorknob. “Here goes nothing,” he murmured to himself as he gave the knob a twist and pushed open the door.

A petite woman with dark skin, very short greying hair and large, wide eyes looked up from the laptop in front of her. Her eyes bulged and she let out a gasp, getting to her feet and backing away from Patrick. She held one hand placatingly in front of her, shaking her head wildly.

“No. Nope! No, no, no, no, nope!” she chanted to herself. Her panicked voice sent a shiver down Patrick’s spine. He stood in the doorway, his hands clenched tightly into fists and beads of sweat forming at his hairline. “No. You’re not real. You’re not real. How are you real? You can’t be real!”

Patrick glanced down at himself. He’d felt more real when he’d woken up this morning than he’d ever felt in his entire life. And despite the fact that he was standing not eight feet from the woman who had been in his head for the past ten days, that hadn’t changed. He knew who he was now. 

“Um, I can assure you that I am very real,” Patrick said far more calmly than he felt. He took a tentative step toward the woman, who took a countering step away from him. “My name is—“

“Patrick Brewer,” she breathed. She blinked at him, a confused crease forming between her brows. “I...oh my God, your face...y-your hair!” Patrick ran his hand self-consciously over his close cropped hair. “Y-your watch!”

Patrick’s watch wanted nothing to do with this particular conversation and endeavored to make itself as unobtrusive as possible.

The woman slowly rounded the table, edging her way toward Patrick, one hand braced on the sturdy oak table top. 

“Ms. Lee,” Patrick said, slowly closing the door behind him and moving toward the table. “I think...I think you might be writing a book about me.”

“It’s Ronnie,” the woman said. “Veronica, professionally. But I feel like...I think we’re beyond that now. So call me Ronnie.”

“Ronnie,” Patrick said with a nod. He held out his hand. “Patrick. Nice to meet you.”

“I’d say ‘likewise’, but the jury is still out on that one,” Ronnie replied, taking Patrick’s hand in hers. Her fingers were rough and calloused, not soft like he’d expected from someone who spent most of her time on her laptop. “Do you want to—“ Ronnie gestured to the table, pulling out a chair for herself and kicking one out towards Patrick.

“Sure.” Patrick sat, hands clasped tightly on the table. He glanced at Ronnie, who was staring at him appraisingly. “What?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You are...you’re just exactly how I pictured you in my mind.” She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head, observing him critically. “A little shorter, maybe. And your face is less...thumb-like than I thought. But otherwise...yeah. Pretty much the same.”

“Thumb-like?” Patrick snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”

“I said _less_ thumb-like,” Ronnie shot back, unapologetic. Her lips curved into a small smile. “A-and David...how is David?”

Patrick felt his ears go warm and his face flush. He smiled down at his clasped hands. “He’s beautiful,” he said softly. “Amazing.”

Ronnie nodded, apparently satisfied. “And you?”

Patrick swallowed hard. “I think I’m in love with him.” 

Ronnie’s face transformed, her features softening, her wide eyes brimming with sympathy. “I know.”

Patrick sniffled, tears stinging behind his eyes. “I just…I was so miserable for so long,” he said, his voice breaking as his emotions overwhelmed him. “And the moment I met him, I just—“ He shook his head, not bothering to wipe away the tears that had begun to fall. He locked eyes with Ronnie, his heart laid bare before her. “He makes me feel right,” he said. “And I came here...I came here to ask you—beg you, if I have to—not to take that away from me.”

Ronnie dabbed discreetly at her eyes. She sniffled and grabbed a box of tissues from the side table, plunking them down in front of Patrick and taking one for herself. She blew her nose loudly, balled up the tissue and tossed it into the waste paper basket. She glanced over at Patrick and rolled her eyes, banging her fist on the table, startling Patrick.

“Dammit!” she grumbled, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. “Ugh. You know, I had such a good ending for you. Really, really tragic, you know? You were going to be devastated. I was really looking forward to it.”

Patrick frowned, not quite sure how to react. “Um...I’m sorry?” 

Ronnie waved a vaguely irritated hand in his direction. “Months of writer’s block, and I finally figured out how to end this story,” she grumbled, eyes narrowing at Patrick. “And then you come in here looking like the king of the Boy Scouts, with your thumb face, and you’re all ‘Golly gee, Ms. Lee. Please can I have a happy ending?’ Hmph!”

Patrick shifted in his seat. “Well...if it helps, don’t do it for me,” he said. “Do it for David.”

Ronnie glowered at him. “That’s a cheap shot, Brewer,” she muttered. Leaning forward in her chair, she rested her elbows on the table and set her chin in her hands. She let out a long sigh. “How was the kiss?”

Patrick thought back to this morning—had it only been this morning?—and how good it had felt to kiss David. How right. He couldn’t help but grin stupidly back at Ronnie. “It was amazing. The best kiss of my life.”

“That _was_ a good kiss,” Ronnie grinned, clearly pleased. “I was very proud of that kiss.”

She sighed and scrubbed her hands over her face. “I don’t know how this is happening, or why,” she said, her voice muffled behind her hands. 

“Me neither,” Patrick agreed quietly. 

“But I...meeting you…” she sighed again, dropping her hands and turning to look at Patrick. “You seem like a decent guy. I mean, I should know. I wrote you that way.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Um, okay.”

Ronnie rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Does he know about all this?” Ronnie gestured between the two of them.

“I...no. He doesn’t,” Patrick admitted. “I, um...I think I kind of messed up when I left.” He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he filled Ronnie in on how he’d discovered who she was, how he’d panicked. How he’d left David confused, looking hurt and bewildered. 

“God. So he probably thinks you left because of the kiss...like you may be having some buyer’s remorse or—”

Patrick’s eyes went wide. “Regrets,” he exhaled sadly, squeezing his eyes shut, his guts clenching as he remembered the nervous look on David’s face when he'd asked Patrick flat out if he regretted their kiss. “Oh God!” he cried, burying his face in his hands.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Ronnie smiling comfortingly back at him. “He’s stronger than you think he is,” she said assuredly, giving Patrick’s shoulder a squeeze. “He’s seen far worse than the likes of you, Patrick Brewer. Difference is, you are going to at least try to make things right with him, which—at least in my story—no one ever has before.”

“So you’ll help me?”

Ronnie grimaced, glaring at Patrick. “Just so we’re clear, if I do help you, I’d be doing it for David.”

“That’s fair,” Patrick said with a small, shaky smile. “I would be totally okay with that.”

* * *

  
  
**Chapter 11**

Patrick glanced at his wristwatch. His wristwatch stared back at him, not at all confident that this plan was going to work. But it had no better ideas, so it kept its opinion to itself. 

There was half an hour until the store closed. Patrick had parked his car just up the street from the cafe, so as not to alert David to his presence should he look out the store’s large front windows. Patrick could see David moving around in the store. Even from here, Patrick noticed that David’s movements were subdued, and it caused a knot to form in his stomach.

He had done that.

Patrick drummed his fingers nervously against the steering wheel. He was going out on a big limb here, putting himself well outside of his comfort zone. He could only hope that David would appreciate the gesture and let Patrick back into his life.

There was a big chance that he wouldn’t—Ronnie had mentioned David’s past, that he’d been hurt before. And while he hated being lumped in with David’s previous failed relationships, Patrick was hopeful that he would be able to show David how he felt. And how badly Patrick wanted to make this work, to give them a chance.

He glanced at his watch again. David would be closing up the store in a few minutes. It was now or never. Patrick got out of his car. 

_He felt a jolt of nerves surge through his body. What if David turned him away at the door? What if he wouldn’t even listen to what Patrick had to say? What if, instead of winning David over, Patrick just made a fool out of himself?_

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ronnie,” Patrick mumbled under his breath. He shook out his nerves. If all he accomplished today was making a fool out of himself, then so be it. At least he’d tried.

He looked carefully in both directions before he made his way across the street. He came to a stop just in front of Rose Apothecary. David was standing behind the register talking to a customer.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Patrick blew it out slowly and ascended the steps, pushing open the door. The bell above his head jangled and David looked up, his face draining of colour and his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

“Hey,” Patrick said with an awkward little wave.

David’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, then he cleared his throat, rearranging his features into a more neutral expression. “Um, we’re about to close,” David said quietly. “So if you’re here to shop, please do so quickly.”

“I’m not here to shop,” Patrick replied, his voice far more confident than he felt.

“Oh,” David breathed, his eyes flicking to the customer standing in front of him, mid-transaction. “Um, okay. I’ll, um...I’ll be with you in just a moment.” He turned his full attention back to his customer and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that,” he said. “That will be $44.87.”

Patrick shoved his hands deep in his pockets, watching as David packed up the customer’s wares in a Rose Apothecary cloth tote and handed it over, along with a receipt.

“Thank you so much for shopping at Rose Apothecary,” he said. “Have a lovely evening.”

The customer glanced at Patrick as she headed for the door, and Patrick waited until she was out on the sidewalk before he moved to lock the door behind her.

“Um, that’s not...we’re actually still open for another three minutes,” David said, but he made no move to re-open the door. “As you know, I like to keep regular store hours.”

“Promotes customer loyalty,” Patrick said knowingly, offering David a small smile. “Yeah. I remember.”

David’s mouth retreated to one side of his face, his dark brows knitted together. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Stevie has all your stuff at the motel. You can just...you can pick it up from her.”

“I know,” Patrick said, taking a cautious step toward David. “But, um, I’m not here for my stuff.”

David dropped his gaze to the counter and fluttered his hands agitatedly. “Well, if you’re not here to shop, and you’re not here for your stuff then I—“

“I’m here for you, David,” Patrick said, his words slow and deliberate.

“I...what?” David peered up at Patrick, his expression still guarded. 

“I had a...a thing come up this morning,” Patrick explained, taking another step forward. “An emergency. Something I had to take care of right away.” He took another step. He watched as David anxiously twisted the silver rings on his right hand. “But I should have...I should never have left like that. I should never have left _you_ like that.”

David sniffed and swiped a tear from his cheek. “No. You shouldn’t have,” he agreed with a tremulous voice. “I thought I did something to make you leave. I know you said you had no regrets, but—“

“David, when I kissed you this morning, I felt all the things you’re supposed to feel with a first kiss.” Patrick closed the distance between them and rested his hands on the counter. “For so long, I’ve lived my life with this hole inside me, this emptiness,” he continued. “Something always felt off, and until recently, I had no idea why. And then I met you, David, and everything changed.”

“Patrick…”

 _David’s lower lip began to tremble._ _Patrick’s name on his_ _voice was so delicate, so fragile. He’d given up on holding back now, and his cheeks glistened with tears. Patrick longed to reach out and touch David’s face, wipe away all of the hurt he had caused. So he did._

Rounding the counter, Patrick gently took David’s face in his hands, stroking the delicate skin below his eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

“You make me feel right, David,” Patrick whispered. 

David sobbed out a laugh. “T-that may be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard outside of the _Downton Christmas Special,”_ he said, his lips quirking up into a tiny, hopeful smile.

“It’s true,” Patrick vowed. 

_Patrick smiled and gently caressed David’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. His eyes flickered down to David’s mouth, his lips so soft and inviting. He looked back up, locking eyes with David, who made no move to pull away. Feeling brave, Patrick leaned in slowly, carefully, until he was kissing David. He slid his arms down David’s chest, wrapped his arms around his waist. He felt David’s hands on his shoulders, moving slowly, hesitantly up until he held Patrick’s jaw so gently between his palms. His fingers were so warm, his rings so cool against Patrick’s heated skin._

Patrick’s wristwatch hummed and glowed in delight. The happiness it could feel thrumming through Patrick’s body was fantastically exhilarating, far better than anything it had ever felt before. 

_Moaning softly, Patrick tightened his arms around David, pulling him closer. David whimpered and laced his fingers through the shirt hairs on the back of Patrick’s head. He opened his mouth, his tongue gently probing for entrance and Patrick welcomed him in, tilting his head so he could give more of himself to David._

“David?” Patrick whispered when they broke apart, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the small space between their mouths. 

“Hmm?” David answered with a dreamy hum, nudging playfully at Patrick’s nose with his own.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?“ 

David pulled back and smiled, bright and dazzling. “I would like that very much,” he said, his dark eyes bright with happiness.

“Good. Because I know a place where the food is moderately edible and the decor leaves a lot to be desired.”

David laughed and pressed his forehead against Patrick’s, his eyes crinkling with joy. “Sounds perfect. I’ll make a reservation.”

_And then David kissed him again, slow and deep. Patrick lost himself in the feeling of David, the taste of him, his scent, and the softness of his sweater. He could stay like this forever. Maybe he would. Who was to say? Life was unpredictable sometimes, not written in stone._

* * *

  
**Epilogue: Six months later...**

Patrick looked up from restocking the Body Milk at the jingle of the bell above the door. 

“Welcome to Rose Apothe—“ The rest of his greeting died on his tongue when he recognized the figure standing in the doorway.

“Patrick. Long time no see.” 

It had been months since Patrick had heard that voice, but it still sent a shiver up his spine.

“Ronnie…” he said, setting the box down on the counter before it slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor. “Um, hi.”

Ronnie closed the door behind her, her eyes wide as she took in the store, it’s sand and stone decor, the neat rows of products lining the shelves. “Wow,” she said, her voice thoughtful, appreciative. She picked up a bottle of Body Milk.

“That’s not for drinking,” Patrick warned teasingly.

Ronnie rolled her eyes. “Anyone with a fibre of common sense would know that,” she shot back with a grin, setting the bottle carefully back in line amongst its fellows on the table.

“So, what brings you to our humble neck of the woods?” Patrick asked, leaning back against the counter and crossing his legs at the ankle. 

“Got any blue cheese?” Ronnie asked, avoiding the question and wandering over to the cooler where the cheese was kept.

“On the top shelf, beside the tapenade,” Patrick said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the fridge. He watched as Ronnie opened the door and compared two hunks of cheese before setting the smaller one back on the shelf. 

“I’ll take this,” she said, handing the cheese to Patrick. 

He rounded the counter and began ringing it in. “I happen to know that they have blue cheese in Toronto.” Patrick bagged the cheese in a Rose Apothecary tote, watching Ronnie carefully. 

Ronnie huffed out a low chuckle. “They do. But I...well I guess I just needed to see this place for myself,” she said. “My book is coming out next week and I thought this would be an interesting way to celebrate.”

Patrick nodded, handing Ronnie the tote. “Congratulations on the book.”

“And congratulations to you,” she replied, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Looks like things worked out pretty well for you.”

Patrick ducked his head and smiled ruefully. “They really did,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re here permanently now?”

“Yup,” Patrick nodded, his smile widening. “I had 12 years of unused vacation time built up. And then when that ran out, I quit my job. Finally sold my condo and found an apartment here in town. I had enough left over after I paid off my mortgage to invest in the store, so David and I are partners now.” He let his eyes roam around the store that was now partially his, that he loved almost as much as he loved David. “As an added bonus, I actually get to put my MBA to work. Found some grants for us to apply for, and we’re already thinking about expanding our store online.”

Ronnie pursed her lips to hide her smile. “Good for you. And David? Is he—“

“He’s just getting lunch from the cafe.” Patrick glanced out of the large windows fronting the store just in time to see David emerge from the cafe, two take out cartons in hand. “Well look at that! You’re just in time.”

The bell jingled and David’s voice wafted in before the door was even fully open.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry that took so long!” he groaned, pulling off his sunglasses and flourishing them dramatically. “But Bob was in front of me and of course he just _had_ to tell me all about Gwen’s new weirdo friend from the internet, which— _ugh_ —don’t even get me started!” 

Patrick’s face split into a smile so wide his cheeks hurt. God, he loved this man so much.

David finally noticed that they were not alone in the store. “Oh, sorry,” he said, sounding not very sorry at all as he smiled distractedly at Ronnie while rounding the counter to press a kiss to Patrick’s cheek and hand him his lunch. “Did you find everything you were looking for?” he asked Ronnie.

Patrick slid one arm around David’s waist, gesturing toward Ronnie with the other. “David, this is Ronnie she’s—“

“I’m an old friend of Patrick’s from Toronto,” Ronnie finished for him, reaching out and shaking David’s hand. “God, your hands are so soft.”

David snatched his hand from Ronnie’s grip, but still seemed pleased by the compliment. “Thank you,” he said, not-so-discretely wiping his hand on Patrick’s shirt. “I use our goat milk hand lotion.” He pointed at the display on the table just over Ronnie’s shoulder. “There’s a tester there if you’d like to try some.”

“Maybe I will,” Ronnie replied, clearly amused by all that was David Rose. 

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” David said, holding up his lunch. “These fries are barely edible when they’re warm, so I cannot have them getting cold. It was nice to meet you, Ronnie.”

“Likewise, David. I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s a real treat to finally meet you.”

“Mkay.” David looked back and forth between Ronnie and Patrick, then down at his fries. He sighed, pressed another kiss to Patrick’s cheek, and disappeared behind the curtain.

“Wow,” Ronnie said with a shake of her head. “He’s...well, he is really something else.” She shared a knowing look with Patrick before she dug into her large, sturdy looking purse. “I, um…I wanted to give you this,” she said, extracting a hardcover book and handing it over to Patrick. “I changed your names,” she explained. “And the name of the town. But otherwise…well, it’s your story, Patrick. And I wanted you to have the first copy.”

Patrick smiled and took the book in his hands. “Thank you, Ronnie,” he said softly. “That’s...Thank you. For everything.”

Ronnie grunted and waved off his gratitude. “I’m glad things worked out for you,” she said. “You look good. You look happy.

“I am,” Patrick assured her. “Happier than I ever thought possible.”

“Well then. Good.” Ronnie was clearly reaching her maximum sincerity limit for the day. “Anyway, I came to see the town and give you your book. So I guess I’ll be on my way. How much do I owe you for the cheese?”

“It’s on the house,” Patrick said, waving her to put her wallet away. Ronnie’s eyes landed on Patrick’s naked left wrist. 

“Where’s your watch?” she asked, brows furrowed.

“Oh!” Patrick clamped his right hand over his empty wrist. “I guess I must have forgotten to put it on this morning,” he said, rubbing gently at the exposed skin. “I do that sometimes.”

“Oh?”

Patrick shrugged. “It’s different here, you know? I guess I’m different, too. Not as stuck to my schedule as I used to be.”

He waved goodbye to Ronnie, turning the sign on the door to “ _Closed_ ” so he could sit and enjoy his cold fries and mediocre tuna melt with his boyfriend. His business partner. The love of his life.

A few blocks away, Patrick’s wristwatch sat on top of his dresser, enjoying a much needed day of rest.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I love this movie and I love this fandom, and I love these boys and I truly hope that I’ve done them all justice. 
> 
> A sincere thanks to _the_hodag_ for all of your help. Your feedback and hand-holding and all-around awesomeness are very much appreciated. This story would never have been finished without your invaluable assistance.


End file.
